Unattainable Deliverance
by AnimalDecay
Summary: 'If you love him, Arthur, let him go. That's what he needs from you. Just let him go.' And it wouldn't be easy, never that, but for Alfred- well, for Alfred, he could do just about anything. Human AU USUK. Oneshot. Mad Dog On Fire-verse, and it's recommended you read that first, but not necessary, for the most part.


**Title: Unattainable Deliverance**

**Characters:** Mad Dog On Fire-verse USUK.

**Rating: T** for some language.

**Disclaimer:** I would like to own Hetalia, but if I did people would get mad at me because I would make only the pairings I ship cannon. So I don't. For the sake of humanity itself.

Set between Chapter 15 and the Epilogue of Mad Dog On Fire. This one can probably stand alone, but I recommend you read that one first. *Shameless self-promo*

* * *

For a time, as their relationship progressed, Arthur Kirkland had half-expected all of his problems to vanish in the midst of Alfred. And he surely wasn't _wrong_ to want it- no, it was only natural, after all, that a man who made so much of him so happy- indeed, more than perhaps he'd ever been- would make _all_ of him happy, in good time.

But after some time, as their relationship progresses still, Arthur Kirkland realizes that his problems are probably more deep-seated than that, and certainly more than he ever really cares to think about. And maybe he _is_ wrong to want it,- yes, it's only natural, but a man who makes so much of him so happy- indeed, more than perhaps he's ever been- shouldn't be expected to shoulder all the insecurity and fear and everything else that has dictated Arthur's life for so long.

And while everyone, Alfred most likely included, is anticipating exactly what Arthur had hoped to be for so long- getting better, feeling better, maybe even being _happy-_ sharing a life with Alfred is leaving him, for the most part, exactly where he'd started; sleepless nights of guilt and regret and wandering aimlessly through the rooms of his cramped apartment amongst days in a row of not having the will to do anything but lie in bed and stare at the dull glow of his cell phone screen, subconsciously hoping for some sort of divine text message of redemption from God himself.

_Jesus, do you have any idea how stupid you sound when you think that?_

And it's exactly what he's doing right now as he rolls over underneath the oppressive blankets on his bed, trying to keep the light of the rising sun from hitting his face after it passes through the gap in his curtains, shining brightly into an otherwise dark bedroom.

Arthur unlocks his phone once more despite knowing already that there will not be any of the anticipated messages, and then struggles to sit up as every one of his muscles fights against the idea of moving anywhere. Rolling his neck and shoulder blades back with a satisfying pop, he decides, against all wishes of his body and mind, to spend the day doing _something_- or at least, something more productive than how he's spent the last few days.

As he walks into the kitchen and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, Arthur feels, for what must be the billionth time this week, guilty. It's not as if his depression is exactly well-founded (_not that it's ever been_, he finds himself admitting once again), and it's probably taking just as much toll on Alfred as it is on him.

Because ultimately, for all he can be self-centered and oblivious, Alfred Jones certainly _cares_, and makes that clear to Arthur on every occasion he can. And in that respect, then, their relationship is probably nothing short of fantastic, and Arthur is well aware that he should be grateful for it. But it's been so long since someone's acted this way toward him that sometimes it's quite honestly overwhelming in more than a few ways, and more than once he's taken his confusion for anger, anger that is usually directed at Alfred, and then- _always_, then- back at himself.

Which is the position he finds himself in right now.

As Arthur finally locates the Earl Grey tea bags in the back of the cupboard, he does receive a text message. Not from God, exactly, but it might as well be. It's from Alfred.

_hey, r u busy 2day?_

Sighing at the atrocious grammar but inwardly glad that Alfred is still willing to talk to him (not that he isn't after every argument, which Arthur is thankful for and adamant he will never take for granted), he reluctantly types back a 'no', hoping he won't regret it later. The conversation carries on and eventually, despite Arthur's insistence that the apartment isn't clean and there's no food to eat- both of which are true, because he hasn't found the energy to take care of the growing mess or slowly dwindling food supply in his apartment for what might, now he thinks about it, have been more than a week- Alfred is on his way. And after no time at all, he's stepping through the door and taking off his shoes before Arthur, who is hoping desperately that he's just hallucinating the man before him.

He isn't.

Oh well, he might at least offer him something to drink.

"Would you like a cup of tea, then?" _Oh, for God's sake, you absolute numpty, he doesn't even _like_ tea._

But Alfred, polite as ever, takes it in stride. "Nah, I'm okay, thanks. Got any beer or anything, though?"

"At-" he looks at the clock on the wall "-twelve thirty, Alfred? You've _got_ to be joking."

"Yeah, well, look who's talking." Alfred laughs, but Arthur narrows his eyes.

"Well, what the bloody hell is it to you?" It's more audible, more hostile than he had been going for.

"You know what, don't bother. I'm not really thirsty anyway." But, perhaps just to spite him, Arthur goes to the fridge and takes out a bottle. In a moment of what is, in hindsight, complete idiocy, he tosses it behind him without actively registering that it is, indeed, made of glass. He snaps his head around just in time to see Alfred make an impressive, though ultimately futile attempt to grab it, before it shatters on the floor before them, contents spilling freely from their broken confines. For a long moment, both of them stare, wide-eyed, at the glass and the liquid.

And then, for some reason, Arthur feels unbridled anger wash over him.

"What the _fucking_ hell, Alfred."

"Wait a minute, that was entirely your fault! Not _everything_ can always be my fault, you know."

"Oh, _really_ now, because you just _had_ to ask, didn't you-"

"No, wait- Arthur, just stop." And with the force of the- well, the command, really- it might just be impossible not to. "Don't turn this into another argument. I've damn well had enough of those and I bet you have too. Let's just clean this up- don't try to walk around it, though, I don't want you to step on the glass. Let me go get my shoes, quick."

And as he leaves, Arthur feels fury rise up inside of him once more- this time, as expected, directed inward. Somehow, it's as if every thought he's been pushing back so diligently away from the front of his mind has come crashing back down with this bottle. Suddenly, there are so many reasons he can see to just give up on them and what they have, to just let Alfred go because its _so clear_ now- everything is- that he's so obviously just an object of pity to a man who damn well has enough to deal with on his own; that he's only holding Alfred back, but Alfred is too polite to say it.

And more than anything else, it further confirms what has been there all along, and even though he's selfish and lazy and just an all-around horrible person, it's about enough to bring him to his knees in the simple clarity of what must now be.

_If you love him, Arthur, let him go. That's what he needs from you. Just let him go._

And there's Alfred then, coming back more quietly than he left and looking down at Arthur, who only then realizes that he's sunken to the floor, knees tucked up near his chin and his head in his hands. Alfred has the good grace not to say anything, but instead carefully steps around him with the dustpan procured from underneath the sink and sweeps up the shards of the bottle. Arthur begins to register that the room now smells very strongly of alcohol, and he feels his stomach turning; threatening to reveal its contents, or lacking that, after not having eaten much of anything in at least a day, other than that seemingly long ago cup of tea, reveal itself (and he's not sure why the strangeness of the idea makes sense now, or maybe he is- he realizes that it was something Alfred had told him once that sharks could do, told him back when Arthur could afford to think that his problems would solve themselves and he had been able to laugh at the absurdity of it and really be interested, not just act as if he were. He feels somehow, now, like a shark- with too many rows of sharp teeth, waiting for the faintest smell of blood, a weakness, a way to attack Alfred- and in that way it makes sense, too, that he's the one causing all of these stupid arguments in the first place).

He lets out a small sob as he bites his tongue to quell the nauseous feeling, realizing belatedly that Alfred must have heard it.

After the glass is thrown away, Alfred takes the rag by the sink and begins sopping up the liquid on the ground. When he finishes, there is a moment of pronounced silence. This is a bad sign- it means that Alfred is trying to think of something to say, and he can't now because there are so many things Arthur needs to-

_I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but you need to go and you can't come back, because I can't make this work and sacrificing your own happiness isn't worth me, it never was-_

"Arthur? Are you okay?"

Arthur can't trust his voice enough to respond, can't trust any of himself, so he stays curled up in his miserable position on the floor until he feels a warm hand take his and pull him up to his feet. Alfred guides him over to the couch, where they sit down next to each other, not speaking for a long while, only listening to the sound of each other's breathing. Alfred speaks first.

"Are you alright?"

The question isn't one that Arthur feels he can answer, but saying nothing isn't an option now.

"I'm sorry."

And Alfred wraps him in his arms and holds him close, chin resting against the unruly blonde hair and it makes Arthur want to cry, almost, because Alfred understands, _always_ understands, and he says, "I am too," as if he was in any way at fault.

But Arthur can't let him blame himself, not after all he's put up with for Arthur, or rather, that Arthur has put him through-

"You don't have to stay, you know." He hates himself for the way his voice tears when he says it.

When Alfred doesn't say anything back to him, he continues.

"I mean, I'm always such a burden on you, and that's all I ever am, even when you're dealing with everything else; I can't even manage to be strong for you then, and then you have to come and be there for both you _and_ me and it's so bloody unfair of me to do that to you." For all he can put words on a page, it always proves a hundred times more difficult to come up with them in person. "So- so please just don't feel like you need to stay and try to make this work because you feel bad for me or something."

Alfred shifts slightly and presses his lips to Arthur's forehead.

"You know that's not how I feel, Arthur."

"Well, it should be."

Alfred sighs softly and closes his eyes, and Arthur can't fathom what this might mean. Expecting the worst, he begins to cringe as Alfred starts talking, and then stops when he hears what's being said.

"That's not true at all, though." His eyes are still closed. "I want you to be happy, Arthur, and there's nothing I won't do to make that happen."

"I'm still sorry, though." And it doesn't feel like he's being clear enough with that, but when Alfred levels his gaze at him with those piercing, shockingly blue eyes, with just the smallest hint of tears in them and a smile below, Arthur realizes that maybe he is. And then Arthur is leaning into his shoulder and the tears are beginning in his eyes too, but they're not sad or frustrated, not at all, and he thinks that maybe he can be alright for the man before him, can do anything for him, if he tries.

"I know, baby, I know." He kisses Arthur's shoulder softly, almost imperceptibly, and it sends another wave of tearful happiness through him because it's something that Alfred used to do all the time, and it fills with hope that maybe this can be their future as they had dreamed it to be after all.

They stay that way for a long time, until Arthur's foot starts to fall asleep and Alfred's neck is sore from leaning into the shorter shoulder.

"Hey, so we never really got around to lunch, did we?"

"I suppose not. I wasn't that hungry anyway."

"Well, I'm starving! I could use something to eat right now." Arthur smirks good-naturedly at this.

"You're always hungry, you tosser." They both stand. "Well, come on, then, let's go get you something to eat. You have your car, right?"

"No, I just flew my private jet here, no big deal." He laughs, and Arthur can't help but follow suit.

"To the jet, then?"

"To the jet!"

And they're not perfect, of course they aren't, because it was never that easy and it's never going to be. But Arthur doesn't want someone perfect, either. And they don't always get everything right- in fact, maybe they sometimes don't get _anything_ right- but they don't have to, because as long as they have those moments of respite, of blissful peace and overwhelming happiness, they can come pretty damn close.

And for Arthur, that's as perfect as they need to be.


End file.
